


The next life

by JelenaMuse



Category: Hollyoaks, Stendan - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Fated Lovers, Future AU, M/M, PTSD, Passage of time, Reunions, Star-crossed, Trauma, descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-26 15:40:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12560672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JelenaMuse/pseuds/JelenaMuse
Summary: Stendan future selves meeting and falling for one another. Both straight (at least at the beginning), damaged and struggling with issues of abandonment, insecurity, and self esteem. Under the most unusual circumstances they meet and become a crucial part of each other's lives. Almost none of the action takes place in Hollyoaks, but there are a few mentions.





	1. The ghost of a lover he never had

**Author's Note:**

> ***Please note that in the beginning of the story, future Steven will be referred to as Jay ("J"). There is a very good reason for that. I know it will sound strange at first, but hopefully you'll get used to it. His real name will be a mystery for future Brendan to solve, once they meet of course, which might not happen for a couple of chapters, I'm afraid.  
> The plot has a massive background story, which I originally planned to reveal in an epilogue, but decided against it. Giving you raw facts about their lives up to the moment they meet made the narration seem a bit impersonal, so I dedicated a chapter to each, offering you an insight into who they really are. I do hope you enjoy it.

                                                                            **Chapter 1: _The ghost of a lover he never had_**

  
***Just to get you started:  
Steven is a young journalist who has been given a one of a kind opportunity to work for a well known news agency, but he first needs to prove himself. The editor insisted that his first major story should be a personal one, so he gave him an option to make it either about his own life or about some remarkable family member. This way, the editor argued, he would get a closer look at who Steven really was or where he came from. Steven didn't think his life was particularly interesting so he chose the second option. Ever since he was little he heard stories about his granddad, and how unusual his life was. He started asking around, gathering information. One of the oldest villagers who was once a great journalist herself, Nancy Osborne, promised to give him all the details she could remember, but advised him to go to the old house the Hays still owned, and check whether there was anything useful his granddad might have left behind. While rummaging through his grandfather's belongings he came across a stack of letters all addressed to someone named Brendan Brady. Intrigued, he started opening them one by one, getting more than he had bargained for.

                                                                                         **** . ****

 

 

 

 

The door clicked closed behind him, barely making a sound. He slowly turned around, blinking the haze out of his eyes and took a moment to look at the nameplate on the door. And there they were, black cursive letters against the golden surface, spelling the editor's name, assuring him that he was still outside the man's office, that he did just finish the most awkward interview of his life and that, unfortunately, that hadn't been just a bad dream. But it did feel like it, like he was in some sort of twisted reality where nothing was what it was supposed to be. He knew it would be hard to get a position he was striving for, even with all the education and references he had gathered along the way, but of all the requirements he needed to finally get the opportunity to work for Channel 4, this was the only thing he never expected to be asked to deliver.

After four years at the London's University of Westminster, intensive classroom training and field work, being mentored by some of the finest journalists UK had to offer, writing scripts for bulletins, headlines and reports, all the work on fast-paced news stories presenting material 'on air' and preparing and conducting both live and recorded interviews, and finally getting the Bachelors' degree in Journalism, this was what he was supposed to waste it all on? He leaned against the nearest hard surface and banged the back of his head against it, dragging his hands over the face, in utter disbelief.

The editor's words still rang in his head, as clear as the driven snow. As an apprenticeship prerequisite, he was required to write an essay, a not-less-than-fifteen-freaking-pages-long essay on his own life or a life of a family member. For a moment he was back in his fifth-grade classroom, feeling as if the world was going to end because his English teacher had just given him the most tedious homework assignment of them all for the summer break, and he was wondering what he did to deserve it. The only explanation he was offered for this more than odd request was that the editor needed him to show his ability to be an  **impartial but involved**  observer of his own life, turning cold facts and figures into a story worthy of listening, while stripping some of the veil of secrecy that he had weaved around himself. The problem with his application, argued the editor, was that it was too impersonal,  **bare,** too alienating compared to the intimate and direct approach the other applicants had taken. It made him seem cold, unapproachable, the total opposite of what he really was like. So, he was given a second chance. The apprenticeship was due to start in a little more than three months. He was given a fair amount of time.

He recognized it as nothing more than an ultimatum but, given no other choice, he quickly recovered from the initial shock and answered that the essay would be written and forwarded before the three months expired. He was advised to use all the necessary time to gather enough material, especially if writing about someone else, to follow any leads available, from news agencies, the police, the public, press conferences, research and collate evidence and information to support his story using other relevant sources such as the internet, archives, databases… And once more, he was back at school again, being given a lecture. As if he didn't know what to do. He was relentless in pursuing facts. He would stoop to anything within the boundaries of legality: stalk, invade, befriend, provoke. He just never imagined doing those same things to himself, so to speak.

He didn't even know where to start. He definitely wasn't going to write about his own life. There was not much to say, anyway. At twenty-two, he was an undergraduate solely focused on building his career, in desperate need of a good job now his scholarship wasn't going to cover all his expenses. He had active enough social life, fair amount of angry ex girlfriends, a couple of close, but not too close friends, and numerous extended family members who doted on him like he was a family treasure or something. Annoying as they were, he loved them with everything he got.

Although he considered his mother, Margaret, to be his guardian angel, it was his father that he felt the closest to. Mr. Lucas Hay was the epitome of kindness, generosity and true devotion. He didn't have a mean bone in his body and he wasn't afraid to show it. He was hardworking, but friendly and loyal. There were people who tried to take advantage of his good nature, but what they didn't count on was that the man wasn't weak or foolish, not by any means. There was rarely a person who could outsmart him. He might have looked naïve, but there was a sharp mind behind those gentle eyes.

A smile spread across his face, just like every time he thought about his father. They had a special connection, and his mother had a theory that it was all in the eyes. All Hay men had deep blue eyes, long eyelashes and bushy eyebrows. Oh, and incidentally, crazy hairstyles. But it wasn't just the family resemblance. They always felt there was a strong bond between them, something that not even distance had any influence over. They'd be miles away and just know that the other one was feeling sick or under the weather. They understood each other without many words ever being spoken between them. They had their own world, his mother would say. And apparently, the same was true for the relationship he had with his own father, grandpa Hay. Now, that was a man who had a story to tell. Suddenly, the cogs started turning and his shell-shocked mind finally decided to join the party, getting a boost up from a whole army of grey cells, it seemed. Yes, he was getting somewhere.

Just when he was about to get his phone out and dictate some of the ideas into it, it started buzzing. Without even thinking about it, he took the call.

 

> "Jay, honey! Why did it take you so long to pick up? Is everything ok? I must have called you a dozen times! I was about to call your dad, but I didn't want to get him worried over nothing. It was nothing, right? All is fine. You are fine, right?"

His mother was talking a mile a minute. From a usually quiet woman, that was a lot of words at a time. He must have properly scared her.

 

> "Mum, mum, calm down! What's with all the questions? I only went for an interview, not to get a heart transplant."
> 
> "Don't even joke about that, young man!"

Great, now he had gotten her angry as well.

Ever since the car accident he was involved in when he was 16, and him ending up in an operating room needing two major operations to survive, his mother had been very sensitive about his health and would get sick even if someone mentioned the trip to hospital.

 

> "I'm sorry, mom. I wasn't really thinking. It's just… You don't have to worry that much, you know? I am a grown man. I can take care of myself."
> 
> "I know you can, but that is not the point, is it now? Mothers worry. That is their job," she said, with the conviction and authority only mothers were prone to. "And your job as a son is to pick up when I call. The interview should have lasted fifteen minutes at the most. I've been trying to reach you for two hours. What else was I going to think?"

Her voice broke a bit at the end, and he immediately felt guilty. But instead of apologizing once again, he simply clammed up, confusion dazing him into silence. Could it be that he was standing in front of that office for hours, contemplating about how unfair the whole ordeal with the essay was? If so, how embarrassing! What if someone had seen him? They already think him a bit strange. No, what was the word that was used…? Ah, alien! Well, great. Loitering in front of the man's office would definitely prove their point, then.

 

> "Jay? Jay, are you there, love?", his mother softly asked. "I didn't mean to raise my voice at you. I was just worried."
> 
> "No, mom, no, don't apologize. Don't ever apologize to me. You did nothing wrong. My head is just all over the place today, ok? But, the interview went well. I only have one additional task to fulfill and the job is mine."
> 
> "I knew it! I knew you could do it! I'm calling dad right away. And Leah, she'd want to know."
> 
> "You do that, mum," Jay replied, pleased with his mother's enthusiasm. 
> 
> "And I'll be making a celebratory dinner in your honor as soon as you're home."

He couldn't stop smiling. He loved making his family happy.

 

> "Thank you, mum. You are the greatest!"
> 
> "And don't you forget it! Love you, baby. I am so proud of you."
> 
> "Love you, too, mum!"

He was about to disconnect when he remembered.

 

> "Mum, I was thinking of catching a train to Hollyoaks later today. I need to thank aunt Nancy for putting in a good word for me. I don't think they would have even considered me for the job if it hadn't been for her."
> 
> "Of course, honey. I understand."
> 
> "I might stay a couple of days, if that's all right."

You would have heard her exasperated sigh over the phone even if you 'd been a few meters away from the phone. It was that loud.

 

> "Young man, if there is another girl whose parents are about to call me to complain how you broke their innocent daughter's heart, you better watch out."
> 
> "There isn't! I swear!" He tried to be serious but he couldn't stop himself from laughing at her outburst. That didn't happen as often as she believed it did. Once or twice. Well, maybe three times. At the most.
> 
> "Oh, you are incorrigible! But I love you anyway. Have a safe trip, baby!"
> 
> "Thanks, mum. Love you too!"

xxx

The ride to Hollyoaks was quite uneventful. He was dead tired and slept through most of it, so he looked a right mess when aunt Nancy greeted him at the station. She, on the other hand, even in her late sixties, still possessed the flair and poise of her youth. She kept her steel grey hair long, braided in a single braid that fell toward the small of her back. Her eyes were still full of fire and her frame looked strong. She was far from a fragile little lady you'd expect her to be. She never let the years get her. She kept busy and in the center of everything. Her success and appraise that followed it came later in her life than she had planned but, she had made a good use of it. Today, she was one of the most influential journalists in this part of England. She was the one who encouraged Jay to get into journalism, helped him with getting a scholarship and even sponsored some of his individual projects. She often claimed how she wasn't a greatest fan of his grandfather, god rest his soul, or the men in his life, but that if there was one thing Steven Hay was good at, it was raising his children. Lucas and Leah turned into wonderful human beings, which is why she decided to turn the blind eye at the age difference between Lucas and her daughter Margaret when they decided to get married. Their strong and loving marriage only strengthened the ties between the two families.

Jay, of course, adored her and in turn, she did the same. Ever since her son, Oscar, died following a serious infection that, due to doctor's misdiagnosis, spread to her son's lungs, Jay had become the apple of her eye. But even he was never allowed to call her grandma. She was simply Aunt Nancy, or Nan.

As soon as she laid eyes on him her expression brightened. She seemed even younger then.

 

> "Bless you, my boy, but you look so much like him!" was her 'hello'.
> 
> "Who is it this time that you are referring to aunty, my uncle or my granddad? It's hard to keep track these days."
> 
> "Oh, you and your sharp lip! One of these days someone is going to shut you up by kissing it into oblivion", she teased, hugging the life out of him.
> 
> "I wish", he replied with the brightest of smiles.
> 
> "Ah, you'd only break their heart as usual."
> 
> " I don't br…", he started, getting out of her arms, a frown starting to form on his forehead. "Why are you all saying this? It was only a couple of girls, and now I'm a registered heart breaker?"
> 
> "You were never good at Math, my dear," she joked, but he could see her eyes were watering.
> 
> "You do look like him, you know? Well, you are Hay alright, with those long lashes and those magnificent eyes. The cheekbones and the hair might be their traits as well, but these muscles here, my boy, they are all Osborne", she said, pinching his biceps."And your voice…God forgive me, but that is one thing I am happy you never inherited from your granddad."
> 
> "And why's that?" he asked, already intrigued.
> 
> "It's enough to say that if you had heard him laugh, you would have thought a donkey was being tortured."
> 
> "Nan, that was really cruel", he scolded, trying to keep a straight face but burst into an uncontrollable laugh.
> 
> "It might be, but see, this is music to my ears and I wouldn't want to have it any other way. Come on, let's go home."

xxx

He always got the same room when he was at his Nan's and it was always the one with old photos covering almost every inch of the walls. As a young boy he loved looking at them, trying to figure out who was who, usually making the wrong guesses. But his granddad, him he always recognized. It wasn't that hard though. Sometimes it felt like he was looking at the picture of himself. Sure, he was bulkier, possibly a bit taller, and definitely more confident looking, but their facial features were almost eerily identical. He carefully studied the contours of his granddad's face when he felt the sudden need to trace his fingers along his own jaw line and then over his full lips, causing a chill to ran through him. He became instantly alert, the hairs at the back of his neck began rising, prickling his neck like needles of ice, a cold sweat slowly taking control of his body. His hand that caressed the face a moment ago started twitching in a now painfully recognizable fashion. It felt as if it was burning with sensation so he tried shaking it off, spinning around himself for the good measure only to notice his Nan standing by the open door looking at him with a confused expression on her face.

 

> "Are you okay, love? Did you hurt your hand or something?"
> 
> "What?"he stared at her with a blank expression on his face. "No! I mean, yes! Yes, that's exactly what I did."
> 
> "Well, you must be tired after all the excitement you had today. Maybe you should make it an early night", she said, worry evident in her voice.
> 
> "No, no, Nan, I actually have a favour to ask of you."
> 
> "Oh, what kind of favour would that be?"
> 
> " I need you to tell me about him," he said, pointing at the photo that managed to catch his attention so thoroughly that he missed his grandmother entering the room . "About Steven Hay, I mean", he clarified.
> 
> "About Ste? What brought this on?" she was curious then, confusion replacing her earlier worried expression.
> 
> "Well, it's for the assignment I was given. It's that or no apprenticeship. He's my  _school project_ ," he murmured.
> 
> "You've got to be kidding me. But why?" she asked, not really believing what she was hearing.
> 
> "The editor said I was being too impersonal in my application. Everything about it was impressive, except my personality apparently."
> 
> "So now you have to write an essay about your dead relative? This doesn't make any sense. I'll give him a call right now…," she turned to leave the room.
> 
> "You will do no such thing," he replied sternly, making her stop in her tracks.
> 
> "Excuse me?"
> 
> "I don't need you fighting my battles for me, Nan," he said, rounding the big bed to come and give her a soft hug.

She stood rigid at first, but relaxed into it after he started purring in her ear.

 

> "You know how much I love you, right? But you do have a tendency to meddle into things you should be leaving alone." 

He shrugged and winked down at her indignant expression. 

 

> "I'm the same, so I know what I am talking about. That is what makes us good reporters. But this, this I need to do on my own. And I kind of get it, now, why he wants me to write it, I mean. I am never going to be good enough if I keep myself out of every story, if I don't let it get me at least a little."
> 
> "You are not detached or cold, my boy! In anything, you are overemotional!" she tried to reason with him.
> 
> "I might be, but I have a hard time showing it. You yourself told me many times how good I am at locking myself away from everyone and everything, how my inner world is my sanctuary and that I go there whenever I feel vulnerable, whenever something is out of place. But I can't keep doing it, Nan, because it pushes people away."

He closed his eyes for a moment, but you could see them moving rapidly behind the lids, as if he was dreaming wide awake.

 

> "You remember how I was after the accident? I barely spoke to anyone. I didn't even feel the need to. And you know what, I didn't even miss it. The interaction. I was happy. And that scared me," he shuddered as the words left him. "How could I have been happy being all alone? You know what my mind was telling me?" he finally let go of her and looked her in the eyes.
> 
> "It created some sort of a fairy-tale world where I was keeping myself safe until the one I was waiting for came for me. It was telling me that I needed to be patient as the time still wasn't right. It was telling me that I was good on my own until then, that I didn't need anyone else. And...," he paused, "I,... I agreed."

He abruptly stopped talking when his grandmother reached for him, trying to get her arms around him, offering comfort. But he stepped away. If she did that, he'd never say what he needed her to hear.  
When he saw alarm gathering in her eyes he offered a barely there smile but, nevertheless walked toward the opposite end of the room, somehow finding himself standing in front of the photo of Steven Hay again.

 

> "You all joke about me dumping girls all over, but the truth is I never felt more than a mild crush for any of them. They were just pale, barely there versions of the thing that I was supposed to have, that I was promised but that had been taken away from me. I've been living with that feeling for such a long time, Nan, and I am tired of waiting. What if that someone never comes?"

He wasn't even aware of how he had gotten himself on the bed, but he was now leaning against the headboard, his knees pulled up, and his head safely between them. Hearing her speak again made him raise his head to face her worried look.

 

> "You are still very young, Jay, there is a great life in front of you. Things have just started to heat up. Soon you will be in the center of so many things that you won't find time to be alone. And as for the one you are waiting for, well maybe they are on their way. Give them some time. Your dad found the love of his life when he was a lot older than you are right now. These are not things that we have any control over, dear."
> 
> "That's just it, Nan. I think I do have at least some control over it. I need to let it go, this illusion that I created in my head while I was lying in that hospital."
> 
> "You had a near death experience, dear, that changes everyone. "
> 
> "But it did not change me, Nan, it just showed me all the wonderful things that I could have and then it took it all away. Someone else's life flashed before my eyes, but it was like I lived it and it was all I could ever hope for. It lasted for only a couple of seconds, but I've never been more happier. And now, I can't even remember a single thing about it. All I have been left with is a touch here, a smell there… Nothing more. Maybe I am imagining it in my head. Maybe I should have accepted some professional help a long time ago."

He felt defeated. He felt he was losing it all over again, and this time around he didn't have an excuse of being in an accident that almost cost him his life.

 

> "You are not crazy, and don't let me hear you talk like that again. All right? Those things you are having, you know what there are, we've talked about them. We all experience them from time to time. A déjà vu here and there doesn't make you a lunatic."
> 
> "No, Nan, but when  _you_  have them, are they telling you that you are wasting your time with someone else? That you are kidding yourself that it could ever work? That you don't need someone who will always be a second best? Well, that's what they are doing to me. I find a girl I like, and I think she might be the one, and I try, I really try but as soon as things start to heat up I feel … Every touch feels like a betrayal, every kiss is forced out of me, a feel sick to my stomach." His face became distorted with disgust while he was saying this, as if he was reliving every single moment he spent in the arms of another.
> 
> "Maybe you should try boys then." His Nan tried cheering him up a bit. Truth be told, she was out of her depth here. She wanted to snap him out of whatever took hold of him in that moment, because she couldn't stand to see her boy suffering. And he was, there was no doubt about it. And anyway, maybe he needed a change. To explore all his options.
> 
> "Nan, this is not a joke," he said, his voice low.
> 
> "I'm not joking."
> 
> "Don't be ridiculous. Don't you think I would have known by now if I was gay?" he tried to reason with her.
> 
> "Steven didn't know either."
> 
> "What do you mean he didn't know? Of course he knew."
> 
> "No, he really didn't. He had a girlfriend, lived with her, had Lucas."
> 
> "I know all that, but he always knew that it wasn't enough, otherwise he wouldn't have looked for something else."
> 
> "Like you're not looking?"

That stopped him from saying whatever he was about to. He looked like he was thinking and then he offered a simple: "It's not the same".

 

> "I'm not saying it is," she let out a deep sigh. "I just want you to keep your options open. I want you to be happy. And I've seen what hiding who you really are can do to a person, how destructive it could be."
> 
> "Are we still talking about granddad?" he suddenly felt more interested in what she had to say, curiosity overriding every other emotion and driving him to ask the question without even thinking about it.
> 
> "Never mind that now. You need the rest. And my old bones are screaming at me to find a bed and lose myself in it."
> 
> "But…"
> 
> "We'll talk about this more first thing in the morning, okay? I promise. If you want to know about your granddad, I'll tell you all I know. And maybe we could visit the old house in the village. Some of his belongings are still there. We could go through them together. "

Now that was something, at least. But if there were things to be discovered about that man's past, he wanted to do it himself. Investigation is what he did best.

 

> "I'd rather do it alone, Nan, if that's okay with you?"
> 
> "Sure, whatever you want. 'Night, honey. "
> 
> "'Night, Nan."

As the door closed behind her a sense of relief came over him. He wasn't sure whether it was because he was alone again, safe in his imaginary cocoon, or whether it was an unspoken promise of the new, yet unexplored life he was about to invade, dig into it as if it was his favourite dish. He smiled at the thought. For the first time in a long while Jay went to bed knowing that he wouldn't be having trouble falling asleep. He was basking in this feeling of accomplishment because he was certain that it had started. Whatever it was that he was waiting for, he was more than ready for it to finally begin.


	2. The Monster and the little boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brendan is a troubled young man, growing up in a strict but loving Catholic family. Ever since he was 8 years old he suffered from mild to serous, what they believed at the time were epileptic episodes, causing him to black out during the day, or wake up screaming during the night. He later explained that during those episodes he felt like he was being violently pulled out from his own reality, only to experience the worst kind of nightmares in someone else's. They left a huge mark on his personality. He became withdrawn and distant. All that miraculously changed when he turned 16. The episodes subsided and he was able to make something of his life. With a business degree, a great job, the support of his wife, friends and family, he thought he couldn't be happier. Until his baby daughter was born. The switch was turned again, and Brendan withdrew to his darker self, the only light spot in his life his little daughter Leah. When the blackouts and nightmares started again, this time they revolved around a mysterious presence that fascinated him so much that he swore he would sleep the rest of his life if he had to, if that meant finding out who or what that presence really was.

Chapter 2: The Monster and the little boy

 

         His grandmother's dining room had always been the centerpiece of domestic life. Whether they gathered as a family alone or extended the table to include guests, the custom-made dining room table had been the place where everyone talked about the current events, discussed any family issues, shared their plans for the following weekend, shamelessly admitted what or who they were involved with at the time, or quite rightly celebrated their moments of success. It should have been a happy childhood memory for him, except it wasn't. Most of the time he had a feeling of being completely out of place there, the odd one out, locked in his own world as always. Today wasn't any different, with the slight possibility of the whole thing turning out even worse than he had remembered. He could just tell that the evening was going to be reduced to one of those god forsaken long dinner conversations served with opinions and judgments. He silently prayed for the strength to get through it without having another breakdown.

         Over the last year he'd used almost every acceptable excuse not to turn up at any of those monthly gatherings, avoiding his family as he would a plague, until he ran out of them, and was forced to confirm his attendance. One of his cousins was getting engaged and it would have seemed rude of him not be a part of this pre-engagement celebration. Except, no one was actually talking about the happy couple. The atmosphere was far from happy, just as he knew it would be. He kept waiting to see who would be the one to break the ice this time, who would be brave enough to breach the dreaded topic of his failed marriage and give his grandmother a perfect opportunity to start another lecture on the importance of children being raised in a loving home, with both of their parents in it. To his surprise, Kate was the one who ended the awkward silence by clearing her throat in a not so lady like manner. It was so unlike her that he had no choice but to turn around and offer her a smile, not bothering to hide the fondness he still felt for her. Unfortunately, she took it as an encouragement and went on with her question.

> "So, how have you been, Brendan?"

        It had been a year since he separated from his wife and left their family home. In that time he'd used every opportunity to see his daughter, but made it clear that he didn't want to have any contact with the child's mother. It seemed cruel at the time, but he knew that it was for the best. Others didn't see it that way, of course, rather blamed him for abandoning her right after she gave birth to their child, choosing to pursue his own selfish plans. They couldn't have been more wrong and more right at the same time. It wasn't a choice. It was a necessity.

        Angling his head to the side in that weird habit of his, he turned his focus entirely on Kate. Her beauty was never lost on him. He appreciated it even now, her delicate built, the long dark hair, glassy hazel eyes, rosy cheeks, soft lips. Everything was there, everything a man could ever want. So why didn't he?

> "Well, are you going to answer your wife, Brendan?" came a stern voice from the end of the table, startling him from his reverie.
> 
> "It's okay, Eileen. If he doesn't want to, he doesn't have to."

          You could hear the hurt in her reply, but she still defended him, like she always had. Kate had been his anchor, his savior, his defender for such a long time that the role felt natural to her and she kept doing it out of habit. It used to make him feel warm inside to know that he had her backing him up at all times, but now it just seemed intrusive and, quite frankly, irritated the hell out of him.

> "She is not my wife anymore, now, is she? I thought by now you would have gotten the message, grandmother. After all, you never could keep your nose out of my affairs."
> 
> " Drop the attitude, boy. You know that I'll always want the best for you."
> 
> "Ah, and that would be going back to the wife I don't love anymore, the house that suffocates me and the job that bores the living daylights out of me, wouldn't it?"

God, he despised that woman so much. Her controlling tendencies had made his life a living hell when he was a teenager, and he would have cut all his ties with her a long time ago if it hadn't been for his parents. He shot daggers at her across the table with the intensity of his stare, but was forced to break eye contact at the sound of a chair being dragged over the floor. He turned quickly enough to see Kate's retreating frame as she ran out of the room.

> "Brendan, that was absolutely uncalled for!" This time it was his mother that did the scalding before leaving the room herself, obviously to comfort her daughter-in-law. Well, soon to be ex daughter-in-law.

         The room fell silent once again. Three pairs of eyes were watching him intently, following his every move, expecting him to do anything but keep calm and quiet. But he did. He didn't want to give them the satisfaction of seeing him lose it. Not again. It would only serve to prove their point – that his condition was turning for the worse and that he was in need of another of those so called treatments. He promised himself he wouldn't put himself through that again. He could not afford to become as vulnerable as he was as a kid. He could not trust them. Not even his uncle Declan who was the only person in that room he actually felt close to. All he ever got from the man was acceptance and understanding, no matter what. His support and approval meant the world to him and he dreaded ever having to disappoint him. Even now, the look he gave him wasn't the one of judgment, but of worry. He knew his nephew was close to a breaking point. He wanted to help. But Brendan shook his head slowly at him and letting out a long breath, closed his eyes and tried to calm himself down. It took a few minutes for him to get his breathing under control. To the outsider it must have looked like he was sleeping. But they knew better. He was tuning them out.

        Beyond frustrated, his grandmother abruptly stood up, closed the distance between them and with a superior look on her face started clicking her fingers in front of his face, gauging for any kind of reaction.

> "Are you even in there, boy? Or are you conveniently daydreaming again? Of course you are. Every time you are confronted with the truth of your failed life choices, you run away to that special place of yours, hiding like a little girl."
> 
> "Mother, that is enough!" finally his father had something to say.

          Brendan blinked the haze out of his eyes and looked at his father in absolute confusion. Rare were the moments when Padraig Brady stood up to his mother, not to mention raise his voice at her. He loved his father, but the fact that he lived in his mother's shadow rattled him more than he would have liked to admit. Every decision his father had ever made needed to be blessed by the woman's approval. She had gotten so far into his head, shaping and molding him after her own fashion, that his father lost any trace of his own identity a long time ago and became nothing more but a puppet whose strings were left at the mercy of a very skillful manipulator, to be pulled at her will. It must have been the mention of his son's medical condition that had gotten the rise out of him.

> "I think I'm gonna leave now, before this turns ugly. Well, uglier", Brendan said, pulling his chair out.
> 
> "It was a pleasure as always," he couldn't stop the sarcasm dripping from his lips.
> 
> "Father. Uncle. Let's not do this for a while, okay?"

He was out of the house before any of them could even respond. Yes, he knew it was a coward's way out, but it was also the only way out. He needed the safety of his own room. He needed to be alone with his thoughts. 

xxx

> "How could you, mother?"

          Declan was standing by the chair Eileen sank into after watching her only grandson leave her house, obviously displeased with the way he was treated. He could see that she knew she had crossed the line, mentioning the unmentionable, but he was also sure she felt no regret for it. When Eileen wanted something, she was ruthless and relentless in her pursuit. And she wanted to keep the Brady name as spotless as it could possibly be.

> "I don't like to be ignored, son. And I hate it when he simply disappears like that. I sometimes think he does it on purpose."
> 
> "You do know he has absolutely no control over it, right?"
> 
> "I am not so sure anymore. Maybe at some point. But I find it odd how it always kicks in when I am around."
> 
> "It's because you are always going at him. The boy can do no right in your eyes, mother. You keep criticizing him and, quite frankly, it's doing my head in, not to mention his."

      He pressed both thumbs against his temples, massaging them with strong circular movements, knuckles turning white at the effort he was putting in.

> "He is hardly a boy now, and you keep defending him. Why can't you all see that he has done us all wrong by going out on his family? Do you even care what people are going to think? I can't go on lying to our friends, making up excuses. He needs to fix this."
> 
> "Mother, I am sorry," Pedraig came and put his arm around her shoulders, "but he is not going back to Kate. We went through all this a few months ago. I don't want him to have another relapse, and if this is what is making him feel better, then we should all support him."
> 
> "He can't have a divorce. I won't allow it."
> 
> "He already signed the papers," Declan interjected, his voice going a bit high.
> 
> "Yes, but she hasn't," she smiled through her words.
> 
> "You can't force them to stay together. Even Kate is beginning to see that it is for the best," her older son tried to reason with her, all the while knowing that it was a lost cause.
> 
> "A divorce will kill us. I wouldn't be able to show my face in the… ," she sighed. "Does he even think about how this reflects on the rest of the family?"

         That was her biggest concern, of course. They were one of the Belfast's most respected families. In the light of her efforts to achieve just that, she effectively controlled her closest ones, planning their lives up to a detail. If anyone stepped out of line, she was there to get them right back on track. She did everything in her power to make people forget that they were ever related to a convicted serial murderer. She made her boys study hard, she enrolled them into as many extracurricular activities she could possibly squeeze into their young lives, forced them all to get business degrees and gotten them married to women worthy of anyone's praise. They as a family hosted many charity events and became donators to nearby schools and hospitals. It was a picture perfect image, with only one flaw in it – Brendan.

        She strongly objected to her grandson being named after her ex husband, but when he was born Declan had just found out that he couldn't have children of his own so it was easy for him to convince his brother to carry on the family legacy, and give his son the family name. So the baby was named Benjamin Brendan Brady, or as they all liked to joke 'the triple B'. Although his grandmother insisted on calling the boy Ben, she was the only one who did so. The rest of the family simply liked Bren more, especially Cheryl, who of course was delighted by being able to use the nickname again. When the boy turned out to be a troubled one, Eileen blamed it on the name and called it a family curse.

        Although Eileen and Brendan could now not stand being in the same room without going for each other's throats, that hadn't always been the case. In the boy's early years she was his everything. She simply adored him. He was her perfect little angel. It helped that the boy was really smart and had a wonderful, bubbly personality. He would always bring a smile on people's faces and rarely anyone was able to resist his charm. This perfectly suited Eileen's need to be accepted, to be valued as a part of the society. She doted on him, bringing his every whimsical desire to life. She simply spoiled him rotten. You'd have to wonder what turned the adoring grandmother into a judgmental, despising woman who couldn't care less about hurting her grandson if only to get a slightest reaction.

        It all started on the night of Brendan's eighth birthday. Having in mind his inexplicable fondness for antique trains, the overly extravagant themed party, courtesy of Brendan's great aunt Cheryl, was set up in the backyard of the house, along with a miniature ride-on train. As usual, Cheryl went a little overboard. The decorations and accoutrements must have cost a fortune - a bouncy castle, a face painter, a balloon artist and, of course, roaming super hero characters who were hired after Brendan argued that they also rode trains.

        Even though everyone, including the musicians, wore overalls and conductor hats, in accordance with the theme, the hero of the party was the one and only Man of Steel, Superman. The costume was hard to get, as it wasn't as popular as it used to be, but nothing was impossible for his grand aunty. She would have given him the moon and stars if he had only asked.

        Guests feasted on sandwiches, tacos, chips and chicken fingers. The cake was a huge green kryptonite looking thing which they all had a slice of, proving that not even that could hurt his favourite character of all times. A fairy floss machine and a lemonade stand topped off the big day. Brendan was as happy as a lark.

        Eileen was also there, of course. After two hours of running after children, making sure nothing bad happened, she looked exhausted, sitting at one of the back tables, drinking a rather funny looking lemonade. Brendan wanted it to be blue, so it had to be blue. How they managed to do that, no one knew, or cared, as long as it was drinkable, and Brendan was pleased. The last thing on the list was handing out the goody-bags, something she was in charge of. As the guests were leaving one could hear them talking about how colorful and tasteful the event was and how eagerly everyone would be looking forward for the one next year. Eileen couldn't have been any prouder.

        That night she tucked Brendan in, kissing him on the forehead. It would be the last time the two shared an intimate moment like that.

xxx

        Brendan was jolted out of bed by yet another violent dream. His sweat covered body was shaking and he had a hard time figuring out where he was. The only light came from a nearby street lamp, casting a shadow through his bedroom window. He felt drawn to it, to the light. He wanted to be as far as possible from this darkness that was within him, that was slowly consuming him. He banged his head against the window sill, asking himself for the hundredth time these past couple of months "Why? Why were the nightmares back?" It had been almost 20 years since his first one and he swore he still felt the chill that ran through his body at the sensation. The memory of it was so clear that he could recall it without missing a detail.

        It was after his eighth birthday party. He was brilliantly happy. All of his friends turned up, he got the presents he asked for, and he got to play Superman for a day. But, when the high of the excitement was over, he felt dead on his feet. The fatigue had caught up with him and he barely had the strength to say good night to his grandma before the sleep took over.

        The first thing he heard were the footsteps that sounded more like someone was dragging their feet up the stairs. Up they went, one leg at a time. With every step they seemed to be getting closer, stopping right in front of, what he guessed was his room. The door opened with a low-pitched creak revealing a silhouette of a man big enough to block the light the source of which was somewhere far behind him. With a muffled thud the man closed the door and turned to face him.

        There was something familiar in his movements, in the way he looked at him, in the way he smiled. Brendan trusted this man. Brendan loved him. When the man approached the bed, he made him enough room to sit on it. And then it hit him. The smell, the odd mixture of sweat, cigarettes and what he thought he recognized as whiskey. His dad used to serve it to his friends at the late dinner parties and at one such occasion jokingly offered Brendan a sip. Wanting to be brave, he snatched the glass, brought it to his lips but bolted at the last minute. The smell was so strong it simply put him off. Somehow he knew that the man sitting beside him on the bed enjoyed the drink too much. But he forgave him for that. We all had our flaws.

        A hand sneaked under his blanked and he smiled again. The man was there to tuck him in. He did it every night, pulled the covers up to his chin, kissed him on the forehead and left. Except that this time, he didn't leave and instead of pulling the covers up he threw them off the bed. Slightly confused, Brendan looked up only to see the man staring back at him with the look on his face that he couldn't define. He started feeling a little uncomfortable and a little cold. Dropping his legs to the floor he went to stand up and go pick up the blanked when a hand stopped him. The last thing he was conscious of were the words "Where do you think you are going, little girl?" spoken with a bit of a slur before the searing pain took over.

        A blood curdling scream escaped Brendan's lips as he bolted upright, his eyes wide open, a look of fear and panic written all over his face. Within seconds his parents were right beside him, speaking words of comfort, telling him that it was nothing more but a bad dream, except he couldn't really hear them. He might have been awake, but his body was still trapped in that awful room, going through unimaginable pain and suffering. He was covered in sweat, uncontrollable shakes going though him, his breathing fast and his heart rate so erratic that he was afraid if would jump out of his chest. His whole body ached and he started pleading, begging for it to stop. When nothing helped he began grabbing a handful of skin here and there, on his arms, his chest, his thighs, pulling at it, trying to peal it off. When the bruises started forming and the blood rushed to the surface, his father couldn't take it anymore. He grabbed him in a tight hold, trapped his legs between his own, and put his chin on top of the boy's head, effectively stopping him from hurting himself further. He spoke softly in his ear, tender words, words of love and encouragement, praising him for being a brave little boy, telling him that everything would be okay, that he was safe now. It broke him to realize that he could not offer him any kind of consolation because his son was not even there, not mentally anyhow.

         For torturing 15 minutes he held on to the boy, the screams and pleas tearing at his heart, ripping him apart. When it was finally over he released Brendan from his arms, crawled around him on the bed, put his little cheeks between his hands and asked him whether he was all right. Brendan's face showed no emotion, no fear, no pain, nothing. His eyes were unfocused and he looked right through his father. That's when he realized the boy didn't even recognize him. His body was so still he wasn't even sure he was breathing. He tried to slowly lower him back into bed, but as soon as his hand got in contact with his son's skin, the boy keeled over and violently emptied the contents of his stomach. The strain of it brought him back from wherever he was and he began to quietly sob, repeating over and over again that he was sorry.

         Over the whole ordeal his mother stood motionless by the window, too shocked to be of any help. Tears were running down her face which was as white as a sheet. Even after it was over, and the boy was lightly snoring in his father's arms, she still hadn't moved. It was Eileen who first found the strength to speak.

> "That is my grandson you are holding in your arms. Make sure this never happens again, and even if it does, you will tell no one about it. The same goes for you," she turned to her daughter-in-law. "Is that understood?"

          When she got a silent nod from both of them, she continued.

> "Good. We will figure out what had brought this on, and we will fix it."

          She then walked to the bed, put her hand on top of her grandson's and said,

> "My perfect little boy."

You could hear it in her voice that this time she didn't really mean it.

xxx

         Brendan's life from that day on changed dramatically. The nightmares continued on a regular basis, which led to his refusal to go to sleep. Every night he would plead with his parents to let him stay up, just a little longer, but no matter how late he got to bed, as soon as he went into deep sleep the horrific dreams would take over. The more he had them, the more his grandmother insisted on getting him medical help.

          The fist doctor who examined him defined them as night terrors, explaining that some, although usually younger children had them and that he would grow out of them. The boy needed to feel safe again, emotional or physical stress was to be avoided at any cost. He recommended that the boy slept in the same room with his parents, but in a separate bed. The room should never be dark, but not too bright either. Dim light from a nightstand lamp worked the best. Every night before sleep they talked to him, telling him that there was no reason to be afraid, that they were right across the room. And sometimes it did work. Those nights gave his parents hope that things were getting better, that he was getting better. Other nights, when he woke up with new bruises and cuts, hurting all over and asking them for help, they would feel the hopelessness of it all.

           And then, to make things even worse, a new symptom emerged.

           After three nights of sleeping throughout the night, without any disruptions, Brendan was unusually energetic. He was in the backyard, kicking the ball about one minute, then jumping the rope or going on the swing the next. His mother had a hard time following him around, but she was basking in the warmth of her son's joy, especially after he'd spent most of his earlier days being almost lethargic. She must have taken her eyes off him for a couple moments because now she couldn't see him anywhere. She started calling out for him, and just as panic was beginning to settle in, she saw him climbing up into the mid-branches of a tree with the agility of a cat. Criticizing herself for allowing fear to take over so easily, she moved toward her son, the smile on his face relaxing her even more. She just about reached him when Brendan lost his footing and skidded down the tree trunk, hitting every branch and bump as he finally tumbled down. He gave no sound and his body lay motionless on the ground.

            She was there in an instant, crouching by his side, searching for any injuries. When she didn't find any serious ones, only a few scratches here and there, she carefully lifted his head, and was surprised to see the boy was conscious after all. She expected him to cry or at least complain about the pain, but he just kept staring at her, his eyes unfocused, saying nothing, doing nothing. She got him into the house, put him on the sofa and called her husband.

             Within a little less than half an hour Padraig was there. His father's voice seemed to have done the trick, and Brendan came back to them. Blinking rapidly, he moved his head left and right, his face scrunched in confusion. He had no idea how he ended up on the living room sofa. He had no recollection of the fall either. But he did say he remembered playing with his sister on the beach, wearing his Superman costume. When his parents reminded him that he had no sister, he said that he knew that. He explained it was the other him he was referring to, the one that lived in his mind, the boy who got hurt a lot. This was the first of many blackouts he would experience throughout his childhood and every time he was asked what happened while they lasted, he would say that he went to visit the other boy.

             At the age of nine, Brendan was admitted into a hospital after almost being run over by a car. He and some of his friends were excited about going to their friend's party later that day, especially Brendan who had a little crush on the birthday girl. They were talking about it and making plans on their way home from school when they came to a crossing. Everyone stopped to wait for the green light, except Brendan, who just kept walking, ignoring their attempts to pull him back. Luckily, the driver had quick reflexes and managed to swerve the car just enough to miss him. It took them 20 minutes to get Brendan to respond, and once he did he said he remembered jumping from a pier and getting rescued by the police. His friends laughed at the joke, not realizing that he was dead serious.

            Admitting that something was definitely wrong with their son, the Bradys agreed to have him tested. This time the physician that took interest in their son was very thorough, so much so that he even contacted the school nurse and got Brendan's medical record faxed to him. He learned that the boy had trouble sitting still, focusing, or managing his impulses. He also seemed to be accident prone. The nurse suspected ADHD but was not qualified to make that diagnosis. With the amount of bruises and cuts Brendan had suffered in the previous months, the physician decided that the examination should include the interviews with both the parents and the child, done separately, in order to allow each party to speak freely. He also explained that there were naturally things the young person may be thinking, feeling, or doing that the adult was not aware of and he wanted to see what Brendan's understanding of his condition was.

            The doctor's initial assumption that one or possible both of the parents might be physically hurting their son was dismissed after the first interview with the boy. He showed no fear or resentment while referring to his parents but talked about them with obvious affection. The doctor was more than relieved. However, what he discovered was that there was a male figure in his life who he was terrified of, and that he was afraid that the man would harm his loved ones if he ever decided to get away from him. When asked who that person was, Brendan simply said that he was someone the boy from his thoughts once loved but now feared and hated. The doctor tried to get more information out of Brendan, but it was a slow progress. He needed him to open up, and that took time. Reluctantly, the parents agreed that Brendan should be admitted for an observation, for no less than a month. When they left him in the hospital that first night, it was after he had cried his heart out, promising that he would never mention the boy or the nightmares again, if only they took him back home. Knowing it was for his own well being didn't make leaving him behind any easier.

             For the next five years Brendan was in and out of hospitals with his diagnosis being changed year after year. He couldn't even count the number of medications he was forced to take or the institutions he stayed in. After being wrongly diagnosed as bipolar and suffering from delusional disorder, the doctors finally agreed that all his symptoms indicated a post-traumatic stress disorder: the recurrent re-experiencing of the trauma, flashbacks and nightmares, general numbing of emotional responsiveness, trouble concentrating, irritability, anger, poor concentration, blackouts, reckless or self-destructive behavior, feeling detached from others, holding negative beliefs about himself, and a tendency to blame himself for the trauma. He had them ALL. In the end it turned out he was a textbook case. The only thing they couldn't figure out was the underlying cause of the disorder as he had never experienced a traumatic event in his life. Not wanting to be proven wrong, the doctors justified it with a premise that he either was not truthful about his past experiences or had buried them so deep that he was simply not able to recall any of the details.

             Over the years he was taught how to manage his anger and anxiety, improve his communication skills, and use breathing and other relaxation techniques to help gain a sense of mastery over his emotional and physical symptoms. These coping mechanisms were paired with medications that helped decrease depression, panic or any other physical symptoms associated with the illness. So he was on a "healthy" dosage of Prozac and Zoloft. He was less aggressive and impulsive, but he also didn't feel very much alive. At least he was finally out of hospital and back to school. Robbed out of his childhood he didn't feel particularly comfortable around children his age, but he managed to form some good friendships along the way. His good looks helped with girls and the boys deemed him dangerous because he was tough and smart at the same time. There was not much to do when you were stuck in a hospital twenty-four hours a day but read and study. Consequently, he was full of cocky aphorisms and proverbs, and loved to use them in the most inappropriate times.

             He also developed this walk, more like a swagger you'd expect of a rope dancer, which he used to impress the local girls. His movements were confident, purposeful and assured. reflecting the control he maintained over himself at all times. The shoulders beneath the fine tailoring of his jacket were already broad and strong and his limbs full of hard muscle, courtesy of boxing lessons he had recently started taking. He avoided group sports as his sudden flashbacks and blackouts made him useless, but boxing was different. He learned how to get in control of his body and use it as a weapon, but also as a shield. He got pretty good at it, but wouldn't get into a competition. For him, boxing was a survival skill, not a sport. He rarely got a chance to test how good he had become because in or outside the ring, no one dared challenge him.

            Although life had gotten better, and the medicine he took each day helped with the physical aftermaths of his illness, the nightmares didn't go away. What's more, they got worse, more vivid, more detailed than before, but he wouldn't talk about them with anyone. With all the techniques of self-control he mastered, he was able to make himself wake up right after the nightmare was over, so there was no screaming, no violent reactions that would wake the whole house up. He also felt that the time was coming when he would finally be able to get rid of the monster that plagued his dreams, saving the other boy in the process as well.

             The blackouts didn't disappear either, but Brendan didn't complain. He almost wished he had more of them. Just like his nights were filled with grotesque images of violence and hurt, the daily flashbacks were always about some good, happy memories of the same boy who was, just like Brendan, growing up and growing strong. In those moments Brendan felt confident that one day they'd both escape the nightmares and start living only the good parts.

             On the day Brendan started his sixth-form studies the boy came to his dreams once again. For the first time he wasn't afraid, he wasn't running or fighting someone off. He was standing in front of his house, wearing a school uniform and a full blown smile. He pointed to a curly blond standing at the front door, blowing him kisses. Feeling foolish he sent her a kiss in return and focused on Brendan again. He nodded his head in confirmation. He too was leaving his home, going to college and to a better life. His sister was finally old enough to be left behind. He waved Brendan goodbye and gave him a silent 'Thank you'. Just as Brendan was about to ask him 'What for?' the boy disappeared. It would be years until he'd see him again.

xxx

             Stepping into adulthood meant Brendan felt safer, more capable of taking care of himself. With the nightmares gone his sleep pattern improved and so did his general condition. He was in his grandmother's good books again, now that he was back to normal, as she had put it. She made sure he was provided for, followed his education, was proud of his accomplishments but never showed any affection toward him again. It seemed she could never forgive him for his 'lapse in decorum'. She had always believed that he could have fought the illness harder, but was too weak to even try.

             It helped that Brendan was smart. Well, he had to be. All the private tutoring his parents had paid for had to produce some results. It was as if they were trying to make him the best at everything, to compensate for all the things he missed out as a kid. They would give and provide, and push and expect miracles. For his 18th birthday he got a car of his own, a business degree he couldn't care less about and a girlfriend on his hand. She was a daughter of a well respected family that was into marketing and advertising. They made a fortune dabbling into different types of business opportunities, including the local food and entertainment industry. Brendan's grandmother re-introduced them at one of her posh parties and basically guilted him into a relationship, but he didn't actually mind.

             He was awkward around the girls and didn't really know how to approach them. The Brady charm, as his dad had called it, was wasted on him. Although he knew that he had it, he barely ever bothered using it. The girls were usually so frightened of him and his reputation as a bad boy that even the ones brave enough to venture into anything more serious with him were hugely disappointed by his lack of interest. He liked girls, very much so, but he just never found the ones that made his heart beat faster. And unlike any other teenager, he wasn't interested in purposeless and quickened encounters in school toilets and late night parties. He wasn't a romantic but it just didn't feel right, and even if he would dare to participate in such an event, his grandmother would have probably killed him if she found out. His first date with Kate was not so bad. He liked her bubbly personality, her strong will and a carefree attitude to life. He simply couldn't resist her. She could make him smile in an instant. She would talk his ears off with some silly gossip, but she would do it with such enthusiasm that he found it endearing. He started to relax around her and open up.

             They officially started dating a couple of weeks later. She was never pushy, never too demanding, didn't rush things. She knew Brendan needed time. Being a close family friend she knew how hard Brendan had it as a child. She was with him a few times when he had those blackouts and they scared her so much she ran home crying after each of them. At some point she stopped coming to his parties, not that many kids did, and she avoided being alone with him if she could help it. However, after Brendan's 16th birthday party that she was forced to attend by her parents, she started to see him differently. He seemed lighter somehow, more easy-going, more, well, alive. She figured he must have been just a troubled boy who needed just the right amount of help to pull through his crises and become a decent man she could one day even marry. Six years after their first date that's exactly what she did.

              And for a while all seemed to be going well. Brendan started working at her father's company, covering public events. He spent a lot of time at club and restaurant openings, always searching for the next promotional opportunity, surrounded by the Ireland's finest, but every night he would come home to his wife. Six months into their marriage Kate became pregnant. Both of the families were thrilled and with his little girl on the way, so was Brendan. He spent most of his free time buying baby clothes, cribs and strollers, and what not, refusing anyone's help. Kate couldn't accompany him as she was advised by her doctor not to move too much due to the pregnancy being a bit risky. As the due date was getting near, all Brendan could think of was baby names and the first one that caught his eye was Leah. His little Princess Leah. It had a good ring to it, and the very thought of using it warmed his heart.

              By that time the nightmares subsided to maybe three or four a month which was nothing compared to their earlier frequency. And even when they happened they were not as bad. They felt more like dreams, little fantasies of the things he'd never be allowed to have because they were forbidden, disgraceful and he felt ashamed for wanting them. The only thing was he never really understood what those things were. As always those cravings were not his, but of the other HIM that lived deep inside his mind, hidden from all the rest, coming out of the darkness only when his own conscious self was in a weakened state. At least he now knew that the boy he once tried to protect was now a man, but that didn't make him pity him any less.

             Even more than before, he wanted him to be at peace, and to have his own chance of being happy. He sometimes believed he saw glimpses of that happiness, mostly when one particular person was around. Although he never saw the face, he knew that their hair was dirty blond, their skin golden and soft to the touch, the eyes a wonderful shade of blue, the lips full and the smile as bright as the sunniest day you'd ever seen. This person was warm, flirtatious and very physical. He could almost feel their touch… The bodily sensations were so strong that at moments he could swear that he would be able to recognize the person if nothing else then simply by their unique smell or the shape of their cheekbones. And he knew, without any doubt, that the man from his dreams loved this person, so strongly, so unapologetically, so passionately that it made Brendon's own heart beat faster when those two people were anywhere near each other.

            And that was what scared him the most. No matter how strong a connection he felt to this other man, and how desperately he wanted him to hold on to those pleasurable feelings, he didn't want to get lost into them himself. He lived in constant fear that if others somehow found out about them, he would be institutionalized again. And this time, he really couldn't be certain they would ever let him out. So he kept quiet about them and saw those dreams as his guilty pleasure.

            A month before his daughter was born Brendan got promoted. His father-in-law believed it was only fair after all the efforts and time he was putting in. That, however, meant more work, more social gatherings at which he needed to pretend he actually liked those snobby, pretentious people and, finally, it meant hardly any time for his family. He started losing sleep again, skipping meals without even realizing it and, with his concentration level low, he would even forget to take his pills. The truth was, he didn't really think he needed them anymore. He was generally so exhausted that his body would simply give in as soon as he'd hit the sheets, and he barely ever dreamt at all. When he did, though, it was always about the golden skin that he would touch with so much care, tracing his fingers up and down the back and over the perfect curve of gentle shoulders, feeling the goosebumps under his tips, knowing that the person is ticklish, but willing to go through this little torture, knowing that what would follow next would be definitely worth it. After dreams like these, he would almost regularly find himself waking up two hours after the alarm sounded off, certain that he was once again late for work, and that he would need to come up with yet another excuse, but a smile never really leaving his face for the rest of the day.

           Kate gave birth to a beautiful, healthy girl two days before the New Years Eve. Brendan got to see her for a few precious moments before she was taken back to the baby unit. She looked so tiny and fragile, that he was afraid the slightest touch would break her, so he never even attempted to hold her, but he promised himself he'd do anything, anything in his power to protect her from any harm that might come her way. Determined to carry out this little plan of his, he returned home waiting for the day he could take his two special ladies back home. He felt dead on his feet and crashed on the first hard surface he could find.

XXX

            Brendan jolted from the sofa he stupidly fell asleep on that evening, immediately falling back down onto his knees, struggling to get some air into his constricted lungs, his heart beating so fast it was in danger of pushing itself out of his chest. He was covered in his own sweat and what he could have sworn was blood. His left shoulder felt as if a dagger was plunged and buried deep in it, and someone was purposefully twisting it, making his eyes water. He was unable to move, to speak, to call for help and he felt sure he was going to die, yet instead of being afraid or sad, or panicked, all he could feel was a sense of finality, of a closure, of being at peace with himself at last, his only regret being leaving the man he loved behind, not able to stop his pain as well. And through the loud voices, the sirens, and the whopping sound of a helicopter above his head, all he could really hear was himself repeatedly saying: "In the next life, Steven!"  
  
  
  



End file.
